Recalling the magical years of 1967-69 at the Redneck Riveria

Before moving to Morganton, I had only experienced the vast, placid waters of Lake Erie and the wild, cold Atlantic Ocean waves crashing against the rocky coast of New England; not the lush, wide beaches of the Carolinas and the fun carnival atmosphere of Myrtle Beach.

So, in the late 1960s, I had the utter delight of going to Myrtle Beach with my immediate family and my great cousins, aunts, and uncles.

For three magical years, from 1967-69, we all stayed in an old house. An amusement park had been built around it, up to the very doorstep of the rental property.

I have had many wonderful experiences at Myrtle Beach since, especially when my own children were small. We have delightful memories like the moment, in our quest to play as many miniature golf courses as possible during our stay, my 5-year-old son paused before a putt, pushed back his flop hat, wiped his brow, and as innocently as if he had said, “nice putt,” proclaimed, “as Aunt Faith would say, ‘It’s hot as hell.’”

There were a few not so nice Myrtle Beach experiences as well; like the time years later, when my brother — while holding his 3-year-old-daughter — was slugged by a guy at that same cherished amusement park of our youth.

Some beach trips equaled, but never exceeded, the magic of those first three years with my mother’s siblings and families all stuffed in the old house smack dab in the middle of things.

The trip down

On the exciting morning of leaving for the beach, my younger brother has a distinct recollection of waking up to the loud attic fan being turned on in our non-air-conditioned house as the family got up early, usually before dawn, to pack up the car with luggage and the numerous groceries for meals for the week.

Many Morgantonians of that era seemed to have similar experiences getting to the beach:

• the early morning starts;
• the obligatory first stop in Charlotte on Independence Drive at Krispy Kreme donuts;
• stopping for peaches, fresh vegetables, maybe an ice cream cone, at family stands along the roadway as we neared Myrtle; the old approach coming in to Myrtle and the interestingly named campgrounds like Lake Arrowhead; and then row upon row of old-fashioned, one story, family-owned motels with stereotypical names like The Sand Dollar and Crown Reef right next to the antiquating grand old hotels of yesteryear, amid the shiny encroachment of bigger national chains.

Once we got there, I suspect we all had similar favorite places, foods, and experiences:

• the various amusement parks; one with a fabulous wooden roller coaster called “The Swamp Fox” (we always had to humor my little brother’s need to say “goodbye” to that roller coaster when we were leaving to go home);
• the incredibly well-stocked, multi-storied, “Gay Dolphin” gift shop;
• the so-called surf shops with beach wear, beach toys, and the obligatory shark tooth necklaces;
• foot-long hot dogs and other fare in the open-air stands along the boardwalk;
• joints with names like “The Bowery” where wanna-be-famous bands blasted out popular hits (at least one band — “Alabama” — actually got famous);
• an astounding variety of miniature golf courses;
• our families cooked most of our meals, but one night during our stay we went out to battle the crowds at a seafood restaurant and had at least one breakfast at a pancake house.

Our memories of that magical time are selective in dismissing the fact that the Vietnam War — and the foreboding draft — hung over each moment like the proverbial “sword of Damocles.”

We hardly watched the news during our beach weeks (this was pre-cable news 24-7 intrusions), but if we had, racial violence along with the heroic Civil Rights movement, political assassinations of historic figures like Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy, would have clouded our shimmering, lighthearted consciousness.

Beach Music

There was always a great soundtrack of 1960s rock, Motown, and “Carolina Beach Music”. Beach Music was an amazingly specific regional genre of pop music of that era that had a combination of influences and interesting titles like “39-21-40 Shape.” “I’m a Girl Watcher,” “Be Young, Be Foolish, but Be Happy” (Chosen as my Morganton High School graduation official “class song”.)

These tunes blared out of transistor radios on the beach, in stores and miniature golf courses, and basically everywhere we went!

My experiences were all family-oriented, while most of my peers had more normal teenage-experiences at The Pavilion on the boardwalk or at Ocean Drive Shag-dancing spots.

Paradise Lost

Upon arriving home after that last beach experience of those three unique years, I remember feeling a distinct and overwhelming melancholy; something akin to acute homesickness.

It was like a premonition that would be the last time that wonderful mix of cousins and extended family would ever get together at the beach.

I still like beach trips. In some ways I enjoy them even more but miss the childhood and even young-adult excitement of getting a first glimpse and scent of the ocean on that blissful first day of arrival.

It’s depressing to think that deep emotion was just the chemical hormones of youth or a childish sense of wonder that has departed with age.

How sad to think those fun times and sweet people are gone; washed away like a beautiful sandcastle against the relentless waves of time.

As a minister, I remember being in the room of a dying church member whose last words were an exuberant, but painfully poignant, “Let’s go to the beach!”

I wonder now if that is what our entrance into heaven might be like: we hear the boisterous sound of an attic fan and then the exquisitely cheerful sound of birds singing.

We wake up to a bright summer morning, awash in early sunlight; along with all the excitement of anticipating a week at the beach with all its incredible sights, scents, and sounds in the joyful company of beloved family members.

It is hard to imagine a better way to start eternity than that.